


Snapshots

by abovethesmokestacks



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: The First Avenger, Gen, Howling Commandos - Freeform, I saw a post on tumblr and decided to fic it so everyone could cry about it, it's all Dugan's fault, referenced Stucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 06:13:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8521570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethesmokestacks/pseuds/abovethesmokestacks
Summary: For a while, fighting is easier. The war lurched towards its end, and though they had lost their leader, their brother, their friends, it didn’t spell the end for the Howling Commandos. Dugan reluctantly stepped up and the men rallied together, kept fighting. Because Cap and Sarge would’ve wanted it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic for the MCU where Steve and Bucky got to take the backseat while Dum Dum Dugan rode up front. Crossposted from tumblr. You may want to have a tissue ready.

_May, 1945_

For a while, fighting is easier. The war lurched towards its end, and though they had lost their leader, their brother, their friends, it didn’t spell the end for the Howling Commandos. Dugan reluctantly stepped up and the men rallied together, kept fighting. Because Cap and Sarge would’ve wanted it.

What once was has been reduced to a pack of already weathered photographs that Dugan has kept stuffed in a hidden compartment in his backpack. They chronicle a year that felt much longer than it was. Serious group pictures, candids that sometimes make it look like they weren’t in the middle of a war: his brethren, making camp. A cup of coffee, the steam billowing skywards. Morita had nagged him to just get the damn picture so he could have his cup of joe while it was still warm. Jones and Dernier, deep in conversation, faces alight with merriment. 

They bring a rare smile to Dugan’s face. None of them ever really smile a lot now. Too much has happened, too much has been lost. People are cheering in the streets but inside the London pub where it all began, the five of them are holding their own, solemn wake over pints of ale, a stack of photos and two folded flags. Dugan used to think it a blessing for next of kin to not have a body to bury, no one would have to see the signs of battle, but now he’s not so sure.

A piece of cloth can not make up for the two brave men they lost.

Falsworth takes them out of London, to a secluded clearing on his family’s grounds. They make a bonfire, a funeral pyre that won’t take the bodies of their fallen comrades but the memories that belonged to the two of them. Of course the Howling Commandos knew. It was never overt, but they knew and they respected it. The quiet moments made it onto film, and Dugan always planned to give the photos to Cap and Sarge when the war was over, when they could finally go home, make a life.

Now they feed these tender moments to the heavens, each taking turn holding the folded flags, each offering a treasured memory to eternity, watching the sparks float upwards.

If only they knew nothing had been truly lost.

* * *

_October, 1951_

For a while it was easier to fight. Going home was such a strange concept, and Dugan almost lost track of all the excuses he sent home to his fiancée. He was surprised she didn’t slap him across the face when he finally came home. Chasing HYDRA miscreants around Europe with Carter was all well and good, but after the incident in Belarus, fighting was not the same.

Now he’s a married man, settled in an American dream with his wife and their little daughter. He’s 39, the world is at peace and he’s trying to live a normal life, working with Carter and a couple of war buddies at S.H.I.E.L.D. They keep in contact from time to time, him and the rest of the Commandos, but they still feel the absence of their friends.

“Dada, look!”

His heart stutters when his daughter skips into the room, his too-large bowler hat perched on her head, his vest hanging like a coat over her small frame, lugging his backpack behind her.

“Wh-what you got there, pumpkin?”

“I’m you, Dada! I’m gonna be you for Halloween!”

He has to force himself to smile, to move gently to her side, kneeling beside her.

“Don’t you look brave, pumpkin. But I think…” He picks the hat from her head, heart melting at the sight of her expectant eyes. “I think you’ll need to grow a little more before all of this will fit you right. Besides, don’t you think mama will be sad if you didn’t wear the pretty costume she made you?”

His little girl ponders for a little while before cracking into a brilliant smile, nodding fervently. Dugan helps her out of the getup, his gear weighing impossibly heavy in his hands.

Later that night, he gathers up all of his war gear; the clothes, the equipment, the photos and knick knacks and hands it over to his wife. He doesn’t want it in the house, doesn’t care where she puts it, won’t be mad if she throws it away, lord knows their attic is already overflowing anyway. As long as the memories are far away, maybe they won’t hurt as much.

* * *

_July, 1974_

There are so many days to remember, so many he’s tried to forget. There are the usual; birthdays and anniversaries and dentist appointments and graduation ceremonies. There are the ones that shake him to his core; the memories that never faded. January always feels coldest on the day Sarge fell, there’s almost always an overcast day on the anniversary of Cap’s disappearance.

Dugan’s a grandfather now, a little grey around the edges, the easy smile and booming laugh still part of him as he rocks his first grandchild on his knee while fireworks light up the sky. It’s a hard day, and he has to fight to pretend like he’s not remembering his fallen commander on what should have been his 56th birthday.

“Are you scared of the fireworks, grandpa?”

He tears himself away, focusing on his granddaughter, eyes wide and inquisitive. Dugan hesitates for a second. There are so many stories he could tell, so many that have been left untold because most are of his time with the Commandos, and his wife and kids learned long ago that he doesn’t like to talk about the war. But… his granddaughter is that age when kids are so wonderfully  _uncomplicated_. It’s just a story. He can fib a little if it gets too close to that corner of his heart where he keeps the hurt.

“You think your grandpa is afraid, huh? Lemme tell you, you haven’t seen fireworks until you’ve tried to outrun tank fire…”

The story almost tells itself, with grand gestures and spot-on impressions. He never even realizes that everyone slowly turns to him, gathering close to listen to him.

* * *

_November, 1996_

Dugan had the immense fortune of never getting shot during the war. A couple of bullets grazed him, but nothing that warranted being taken out of service. As his second heart attack takes hold of him, he takes a moment to ponder whether getting shot would be a kinder fate. Where the hell is his gear?

This feels worse than the first one, the one that got him a damn promotion and parked him behind a desk with the title Deputy Director stamped on one of those fancy little desk signs. At least his wife was happy, scolding him for grumbling about getting boring.

_“Timothy Aloysius Cadwallader Dugan, if I hear you moaning about this one more time, I will throw you out on your ear, and that’s that!”_

She’ll be all alone now. The thought hits him out of nowhere, his mind somehow knowing this won’t end happily. She’ll be alone, and the kids… Wait, no. They’re all grown up. He’s an old man. Retired. Hell, he even golfed at one point. It’s been a good life. Better than some.

As his heart struggles to keep thumping, a serene quiet spreads through Dugan. It’ll be okay. He’ll see them all again. Morita and Falsworth and Juniper. Cap and Sarge.

_Cap and Sarge._

He’ll have to tell them everything. Morita and Falsworth have probably been bickering the whole time. He’ll whack them over their heads with his hat, where’s his hat? Cap and Sarge, they have to know, he has to-

* * *

_March, 2013_

“Mama, what’s this?”

Her son’s voice brings her back to reality. She never should have agreed to help clean out her grandmother’s house. It’s just… so much. Her own mother is feeling poorly and her siblings won’t be home until the day after tomorrow. She should’ve declined, or at least said it could wait until they were all there together.

Now it’s just her and her son, who’s got a faded, slightly threadbare bowler hat on his head, the brim tipping up to keep it from falling over his eyes.

“Let me see that, sweetheart.”

It smells like it’s been hidden away for decades, but her heart skips a beat when she sees the initials TACD etched into the lining of the hat, a childhood memory scratching its way to the front of her mind.

_“Lemme tell you, you haven’t seen fireworks until you’ve tried to outrun tank fire…”_

They both abandon their quest to clear out clothes and furniture, focusing on the boxes hidden away in a dark corner of the attic. She recognizes her grandfather in some of the pictures, a gentle giant with his bowler hat, proudly standing next to- Is that..?

_Captain America._

She sets the boxes aside, waiting for her siblings so they can all take part of this treasure. There’s a lot of oohing and aahing, seeing various attributes of their late grandfather in each other. Ultimately, nobody feels they have any claim to any of it. It’s enough knowing the jovial old man they all remember so fondly fought in the war with Captain America and his Howling Commandos. 

She makes the call the next day.

* * *

_April 2014_

The two men weave through the crowds mostly unnoticed, taking in their surroundings with a kind of wary curiosity. They visit different days, but by some force of nature or another, they follow almost exactly the same path between the displays, a chronology that their bodies know but their minds don’t realize. It’s not the preserved outfits that bring the widest smiles or the biggest surprise, but the photographs. Slightly faded with foxed edges from years untouched and a slightly careless storing before that.

All of the men depicted are dead, save for two. The last surviving members of the group walk around, one remembering fondly, the other in disbelief at what history made of them. Both notice the same little sign at all the photo displays, the sound of a camera clicking and a hearty laughter echoing through decades long gone. It will take a few years before the two of them reunite, and it will take even longer before they can sit down and reminisce, but when they do, it is one man’s photographs that will find them common ground to start from, the ones included in the exhibit they both visited:

_“Photographs courtesy of Timothy Aloysius Cadwallader Dugan’s estate”_


End file.
